


Sotto l'ombra di un bel fior

by yu_gin



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Gratuitous use of Italian French and Arabic, Italian Resistence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not exactly original characters, World War II, let's call them borrowed characters shall we, read the notes and you will understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yu_gin/pseuds/yu_gin
Summary: “That’s the reason, Yusuf” he said. “I know what it means to be on the wrong side of history. I know what it means to look back at your past and realize how wrong you were, how stupid the war you were willing to die for was. And those kids, those kids that are fighting in the mountains, that are dying in the mountains… those kids are fighting a war they have no hope of winning because it is the right thing to do. They are the resistance. They are our last hope.”~~~~~~During World War II, Nicolò parts with the rest of the team to join the Italian Resistance.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 17
Kudos: 101
Collections: Old Guard Discord Server Prompt Jamboree





	Sotto l'ombra di un bel fior

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Ell_002](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ell_002/pseuds/Ell_002) in the [TheOldGuardPrompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheOldGuardPrompts) collection. 



> The title comes from the song "Bella ciao", and it means "Under the shade of a beautiful flower".
> 
> I want to thank my best friend (Itainthardtrying on ao3) for the beta work.
> 
> If you spot any mistake, let me know in the comments or you can contact me on tumblr (applepie4)

**Sotto l’ombra di un bel fior**

The gentle crackle of the burning wood was the only sound in the absolute silence of the Langhe. In the evening, when the fog was rising from the valley, creeping towards the peak of the mountains and covering the fields like a heavy grey coat, they felt as if the rest of the world was disappearing. Their families, their friends, their girlfriends that remained in the cities, sighing for them while they were dying in the mountains, somewhere in the North of Italy− they were all far and gone. They were alone, with their fears and their hopes.

Nicolò dropped his bag and sat next to the fire. Someone had said that it was dangerous, that the fascists could have seen them if they lit a fire. But the fog, that fog that seemed to come directly from hell, was so thick that no one could have seen them.

He dipped a hand in his pocket and took out the ammo, realizing that he was almost out of them. He stared at those left, feeling the cold metal against his fingertips. Two days ago, they lost one of theirs. He was a blond skinny guy from Venezia, barely twenty years old. He was shot in a shoulder, nothing too serious. Nicolò tried to cure him, but they were in the middle of nowhere and the boy lost too much blood. He saw his eyes turning grey, he saw the life leaving that young body to never come back again. He had seen the uncanny face of death too many times, but it still made his bones shake, like the first time.

The chief of the _brigata_ _1_ , Duccio, was a twenty-five years old guy from Firenze, as his strong accent made evidently. He was barely a child in Nicolò’s eyes. He took the Venetian guy’s rifle and told Nicolò to take the ammo.

“Se non lo fai tu, lo faranno i fascisti2” he said. Nicolò looked in the guy’s pocket and found ten bullets. He took them. Those bullets weighted in his pocket like stones.

He insisted on burying the body. The other partisans told him that there was no time, they had to run away before the fascists killed them all.

“I porci stanno arrivando” said Duccio.

“Non lo lascio qui. Voi andate avanti, vi raggiungo al campo.”

Duccio shrugged and swore. “Come ti pare. Non farti prendere” he said, and then, more quietly, he spitted: “Sto genovese testa di cazzo. 3 ”

Two days had passed and Nicolò was still thinking of that body, how thin he was, how easily he took him in his arms and placed him in the grave that he dug next to a cedar. His name was Alvise.

Duccio came to sit next to him. He lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, and said, with his strong accent: «What you did two days ago was stupid.» And then, turning to Nicolò: «I’m glad you did it.»

«He deserved it. He was just a boy.»

«He was twenty-one. The youngest of our group is fifteen.»

 _You are all just boys_ , he thought, but remained silent. He stared at the fire, hypnotized by his relentless dance. How many nights he had spent with Yusuf, Andromache and Quynh, talking about war, and peace, and the hope for a better future.

Suddenly he felt his heart aching and a face invaded his mind. Yusuf. He could almost hear his gentle laugh and see his smile. What would he pay to caress his cheek and let himself go in one of his hugs. But his Yusuf was far, fighting in other mountains, with other kids, for the same war. He remembered their last night together. He remembered Yusuf’s touch on his skin, his kisses on his shoulder, him whispering in Arabic in his ear while they were making love. And then their discussion.

“We agreed that we would stay in France while Andy is fighting in Germany. We had a plan” said Yusuf. His voice was calm and soothing but at the same time firm. He was right. In the mess of that war, there were too many front lines to defend, too many battles to fight, too many lives that deserved to be saved. They had to decide. They had to pick a battle and live with the knowledge that they couldn’t save everyone.

“I know, but I can’t stay here and do nothing.”

“You are not doing nothing. You are helping here, in France.”

“They are kids, Yusuf. They are barely old enough to know how to handle a rifle.”

“So are those who fight here. What’s the difference?”

“Those are my people,” said Nicolò, finally. As soon as he pronounced that sentence, he realized the deep implications of it. Italy as a country was not even one hundred years old, and he had lived for centuries before it was even a thing. When he was born, Venezia, Pisa and his Genova were mortal enemies. Now they were all fighting in the same war.

“So are the fascists that they are fighting.”

“That’s the reason, Yusuf” he said. “I know what it means to be on the wrong side of history. I know what it means to look back at your past and realize how _wrong_ you were, how stupid the war you were willing to die for was. And those kids, those kids that are fighting in the mountains, that are _dying_ in the mountains… those kids are fighting a war they have no hope of winning because it is the right thing to do. They are the resistance. They are our last hope.”

Yusuf kissed him and then stared at him in the eyes. “You won’t change your mind, will you?”

“I have to do what is right.”

He left the day after, at dawn. Six months had passed. They sent each other letters, in an intricate mix of Italian, Arabic, French and English, their own endless dance between the languages that they spoke. They knew that the letters were read by too many people. People that may have not appreciated their relationship. So they learned to hide their feelings between the lines of the letters, to share their own secret language, to remain genderless and nameless, in the grey spaces left by the words. So when Nicolò wrote “When the war is over, hayati, we will go to Malta, our Malta. Là où seulement la mer pourra nous toucher, là où seulement la lune pourra nous voir. Dove nient’altro conta se non noi due 4  ”, he knew that Yusuf would have understood. And when he read, in Yusuf’s letter, “Ya amar, ya ruhi, I look at the stars and I know that we are sleeping under the same sky et ces montagnes qui nous séparent, elles ne sont rien. Conto i giorni in cui non siamo insieme  5 ” he would clench that piece of paper to his chest and think about his beloved, his soul, his sun, fighting somewhere with Booker, on the other side of the Alps. The same war, the same young boys fighting in the mud, the same dream of a better future.

He was distracted by three men, that came sitting next to him. Well, ‘men’ was a bold assumption. Two of them were kids, one of them not older than fifteen.

«Do you have a cigarette?» asked the youngest. Nicolò recognized his dialect immediately. It sounded so familiar in his ear that was almost painful. He was from his Liguria, probably from a remote village in the hills.

«Aren’t you too young to smoke?» he asked.

«If I’m old enough to die…» he said.

Nicolò took the package of cigarettes from the pocket on his chest and gave him one. Those cigarettes were long and sweet, lady’s cigarettes, as the other partisans were calling them. None of them ever complained, though.

«What’s your name?» he asks.

«Pin 6» answered the boy. Which of course was not his real name. Many of them were using fake names, to give themselves new identities or to protect their families. «And you are?»

«Nicky» he said. «How did you end up here?»

«I stole a gun from a fascist and I ended up in prison. When I was released I joined the partisans.»

In normal times, that kid would have been playing with his friends in the field, chasing the girls of his own age and pulling their braids to make them notice him. But here he was, holding a rifle that was heavier than him, fighting a war he would probably never see the end of.

«Do you have someone that is waiting for you, at home?» he asked.

«I had a sister. But she’s dead to me» he murmured, lighting the cigarette.

«Kids shouldn’t fight in a war» said one of the other guys. He was speaking flawless Italian, with the mildest accent from Torino. Nicolò had already met him. His name was Corrado 7 , even though some of the others were calling him ‘professore  8 ’ because of his detached attitude. He knew he was a teacher in Torino, before joining the war. He was one of the oldest, and he couldn’t be more than thirty. «Not when they don’t even know what they are fighting for.»

«I know what I’m doing. I’m fighting for what is right.»

«What would you know, about what is wrong and what is right?» said the man, laughing bitterly.

«Why are you here, then?» asked the kid.

«I’m here so that kids like you can go back to their mothers and sisters.»

«You’re not my father, you don’t get to tell me what to do.»

«No» he agreed. «I’m not your father.» Corrado felt the others staring at him, waiting for him to unravel his story. «I’ve been indifferent to this war. I spent months thinking that this was none of my business, that I could go back to my normal life. But how could I? How could I watch kids fighting and dying in a war? How could I live with the thought of seeing evil and doing nothing? I may not be your father, but I have a son, and a woman that I love. And this is not the world that I want for them.»

«Don’t we all?» said a voice, far from them. They noticed another man, sitting far from the group. He was holding a book, a worn-out copy of Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_ in the original language. «In the end, we never fight for an idea. We always fight for the people that that idea represents. Do you think I would die for freedom? For justice? I’ll tell you what, these mountains, this country, this entire world can screw itself, I wouldn’t care.»

Duccio laughed: «Shut up, Milton 9. Enough Shakespeare for you.»

«So, who do you fight for?» asked Nicolò.

«I fight for the woman I love, I fight for my Fulvia, even if maybe she doesn’t even love me back. Because once this war will be over, I will go back to her, we will pick cherries again from the tree in her garden, we will dance over the same disks over and over, I will hear her singing in her stuttering English. I would fight a thousand wars, just to have another hour with her.»

«That is a bold statement» he commented. In his life, Nicolò may not have fought a thousand wars, but he had fought more than a thousand battles. Some of them had been worth it. Some of them hadn’t. But he was willing to fight a thousand more, if that meant making the world a better place. A world where Yusuf and he could walk together, with their heads up and their hands tangled.

«And you, _genovese_ , why are you here?»

Nicolò was caught off guard. He could have answered that he was fighting for what he thought was right, as Pin said. Or that he was fighting so that kids like Pin could go back to play in the fields with their friends, as Corrado. Or because of the man he loved, to be able to hold him in his arms again, once the war was over, like Milton was doing for his girlfriend. And all of these were valid reasons, but there was something more. How could he explain to those people what he had gone through? How could they understand what it meant to be on the wrong part of History, to see blood on your hands and know that you would never be able to see them clean again, that you would have to spend the eternity to atone your guilt?

« _Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red_ » he recited, quoting the original lines from Macbeth. Only Milton seemed to get the quote in English and stared at him. Nicolò could almost read his thoughts, flowing behind his green eyes. He was surely imagining what kind of guilt Nicolò could be possibly atoning.

Then he smiled and said: «Every man has his ghosts.» And Nicolò could not agree more.

«Listen, we could all die tomorrow, can we lighten up a bit the atmosphere?» said Duccio. «Does any of you know any song? And maybe know how to sing.»

«I do» said Nicolò. He remembered the last time he had sung for Yusuf, an old Arabic song that reminded them of their old days, a song long lost in the memory of the world, but not in theirs. But those men wouldn’t be able to appreciate the gentle sounds of that language, neither the sweetness of those words. «I know a song. I’ve heard other partisans singing it, some months ago, somewhere in the Langhe. It’s not famous, though.»

«I think I know it» said Duccio. «We can sing along.»

Nicolò cleared his voice and started singing.

_«Una mattina mi son svegliato_

_o bella ciao bella ciao bella ciao, ciao, ciao_

_una mattina mi son svegliato_

_ed ho trovato l'invasor._

_O partigiano portami via_

_o bella ciao bella ciao bella ciao, ciao, ciao_

_o partigiano portami via_

_che mi sento di morir._

_E se io muoio da partigiano_

_o bella ciao bella ciao bella ciao, ciao, ciao_

_e se io muoio da partigiano_

_tu mi devi seppellir._

_E seppellire lassù in montagna_

_o bella ciao bella ciao bella ciao, ciao, ciao_

_e seppellire lassù in montagna_

_sotto l'ombra di un bel fior._

_Tutte le genti che passeranno_

_o bella ciao bella ciao bella ciao, ciao, ciao_

_Tutte le genti che passeranno_

_diranno che bel fior._

_E questo è il fiore del partigiano_

_o bella ciao bella ciao bella ciao, ciao, ciao_

_e questo è il fiore del partigiano_

_morto per la libertà.»_ _10_

When he stopped singing, the other partisans were silently staring at the fire in front of them, all of them lost in their thoughts, all of them dreaming of another place, another time.

«Do you think we will be remembered?» asked the kid. «Do you think one day people will talk about what we did, about our sacrifice?»

«They will» said Nicolò. «When the war is over, people will meet in the squares and will sing this song and will celebrate. And they will be able to, because of what we are doing now. They will be free, thanks to our fight.»

_Maybe you won’t be there, when it happens. Maybe you won’t see the squares decked out for the occasion, you won’t hear the music and the choirs, you won’t see the girls dancing in their Sunday dress. Maybe you won’t see the world that you fought for. Maybe tomorrow I will dig your graves, I will bury all of you, and time and history will try to erase your names. But I will make sure this won’t happen. I will make sure you will be remembered._

That night, they all fell asleep in front of the fire, gently lulled by the crackle of the burning wood, hidden in the dense fog that was hugging the mountains. Nicolò watched over their slumber, tired by the long day, but not as tired as them.

And during his watch, he raised his head and stared at the moon, the same moon that, somewhere beyond the Alps, was shining over his Yusuf. His beloved Yusuf.

 _Wait for me, hayati. I promise I will hold you in my arms again, I will kiss you again, I will make love to you once more. And when the war is over, you will find a better man than the one you left, that morning at dawn, in a godforsaken village in France. My heart will be a little bit lighter, and the world will be a better place, for us, amore mio_ _11_ _._

1 The partisans were organized in groups called _brigate_ (singular: _brigata_ ).

2 “If you don’t do it, the fascists will.”

3 “The pigs [the fascists] are coming” / “I’m not leaving him here. Go on, we will meet at the camp.” / “As you wish. Don’t let them catch you.” / “This genoese dickhead.”

4 When the war is over, my life, we will go to Malta. Our Malta. Where only the sea will touch us, where only the moon will see us. Where nothing matters, apart from us.

5 My moon, my soul, I look at the stars and I know that we are sleeping under the same sky, and these mountains that divide us, they are nothing. I count the days that we are apart.

6 This character, his name and his story are inspired by _Il sentiero dei nidi di ragno_ by Italo Calvino, a novel about the Italian resistance.

7 Same as for Pin, Corrado is inspired by a novel about the Italian resistance, _La casa in collina_ , by Cesare Pavese.

8 Professor

9 Same as for Pin and Corrado, Milton is inspired by _Una questione privata_ by Beppe Fenoglio. Luca Marinelli plays Milton in the movie adaptation of this book.

10 “Bella ciao” is now universally considered a hymn of freedom and resistance. However, during World War II it wasn’t yet famous and was only sung by some group of partisans in the Langhe and in Emilia Romagna. The partisans adapted the song from an older version from 1906, sung by the field workers. For more info and a translation, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bella_ciao

11 My love.

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing the pictures in the credit, I knew I had to write this fic.
> 
> For the atmosphere, I have to thank Calvino, Pavese, and Fenoglio, the Italian writers that represented the Resistance in such a vivid way that when I close my eyes I can almost see their characters, lost somewhere in the mountains in the North of Italy.  
> I decided to borrow their characters (Pin, Corrado and Milton) and their stories, as a tribute. I cannot recommend enough their works. And in case you don't want to read them, you can always watch the movie adaptation of "A private affair" with our dear Luca playing Milton.
> 
> If you want to talk about "The Old Guard" and how a single movie literally destroyed my ability to function as a human being, feel free to say hi on tumblr. My TOG blog is immortal-family (main is applepie4)


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